


Save Me From My Burning Mind

by Cinder_the_trashcan



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, everything is burning, it all goes to Hell when Patrick leaves, someone help Pete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 19:10:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13794321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinder_the_trashcan/pseuds/Cinder_the_trashcan
Summary: So for starters, this is my first work on here, so please leave feedback. The violence warning is put in place because the descriptions of self-harm get pretty intense, and there is swearing, so for those who are sensitive to that please turn back now. It gets really heavy and I'm not the best at writing intense emotions such as this so if anyone finds this offensive I do apologize.That said,Pete is an average guy with averagely horrible mental health. The only thing keeping him sane is his Patrick, even though his Patrick is probably tired of his shit.





	Save Me From My Burning Mind

I exhale the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Good”, I hear a voice say. An angel, it must be. The voice is familiar, soft and comforting. It makes me feel safe, it wants me to breathe. Inhale. The angel speaks again, telling me that I’m doing good in the same warm voice.. no, it’s not an angel. It’s Patrick. Though, they are one and the same I suppose. Exhale. I see his face smiling softly at me, the lines of his delicate face contorting upwards into a show of concern. I see his eyes, staring into mine, infinite and perfect, so much emotion, mostly worry for his friend. I look closer, longing not to lose their grasp, but I find not worry, not relief, but sadness.   
My condition is making him sad. My failure is making him sad. I’m making him sad. His smile isn’t soft but sad. It’s taking away the joy the band brings him, Joe and Andy bring him, burdening him with the weight of all my demons. He is sad, because I can’t be happy. He is sad, because I’m holding him down. He is sad… he is sad because I exist.   
I feel my breath catch in my throat as I shoot awake in my bed. Patrick is gone. He was never here. It was all a dream, a dream which I’ve had many a time before. Allowing myself to take a breath and gather my thoughts, I lean against the headboard and fumble around under my pillow for my medication. If I take a few more pills than the recommended dosage by “accident” I can always blame the blinding darkness should effects arise.   
Despite being fully awake now, the image of Patrick looking at me with such pain lingers, haunting me. Of all the people in this world, it’s him I have to force myself upon. The sweet, innocent being who should not have been thrust into such a cruel world. I put all of my issues on him, with or without meaning to, and his face in my nightmares, his eyes filled with sadness, filled with exhaustion, filled with.. emptiness, and it’s caused by me. The eyes that once looked at me with adoration and love now likely want nothing to do with such a walking fuck-up. I don’t blame him though, I want nothing to do with me as well.   
A sigh escapes my lips. It’s 2 in the morning, and I know I can’t go back to sleep after that episode. Deciding the only reason worth living is my Patrick, despite my mind screaming at me not to annoy him with my shit I decide to call him. At 2 in the morning. With my shit. Which I don’t want to bother him with. So smart Peter. Knowing, however, that he’s a light sleeper and the fact that the phone’s ringing means he’s probably awake and reaching for it already I decide it’s too late to turn back, and if I make up some lame excuse he’ll be pissed at me for waking him up. He’ll probably be pissed anyway, but at least this way I stand a small chance of getting cuddles, even if they are out of pity.   
The phone picks up after the seventh ring. Was I counting? A small, tired voice answers the phone. “Pete?” I find I am unable to keep mine steady, terrified of the berating I’m about to get. “Yeah.. yeah it’s me.”. His response is immediate, and I can practically hear the concern dripping from his voice. “Babe.. what is it, talk to me, do you want to come over?” I let go of a sigh of relief. “Yeah.. yeah I think coming over would be best, if you don’t mind.. could you come over here? I don’t think I’m in a state to be driving.” His voice goes an octave higher with worry. “Of course! I’ll be there in five.” And then he’s gone. The little beep signaling the end of the call sounds and I lower the phone and hide my pills again. Just because he knows about my condition doesn’t mean he has to know the severity of it.. I don’t need him to worry like that one time.. not again.  
Sure enough, within five minutes Patrick finds his way into the bedroom, still in his pajamas. God, he’s so hot all disheveled from sleep. Just looking at him makes me smile slightly. He wastes no time in sitting next to me and taking my hand in his. His eyes are serious as they bore into mine, but within them I find no rage, no disgust, no sadness. Just concern and love. Then again, maybe that’s all I want to find. “What happened Pete?” I look down and mumble, barely audible, “ I.. I had another nightmare.” Without looking up I can picture his posture sinking with his eyes, and when I look up, I find I was correct. “What was it this time?” A simple question, but one I find causes me pain to answer. The image is still haunting my brain, and I know it would earn me a long speech from my lover on one of two things; why I was right or why I was wrong. Either one I’m not particularly in the mood for, so I create the white lie of “You died brutally.” Whether or not he believes this doesn’t show in his face, but when he hugs me it signals that either way he won’t press further, getting that I don’t want to talk yet.   
His gentle hands find their way through the tangles of my jet black hair, and my head in turn finds it’s way to his lap. “Will you stay tonight?” I ask, a hint of fear seeping into the question despite my best efforts to keep it out. “Of course” He replies, then sings quietly as he lies next to me. I curl into him, my arm draping over his waist. He tilts my chin up to place a chaste kiss on my lips, which I quickly return. His lips are soft, save for the small scab from where he accidentally scratches them when he bites his cuticles as one of his nervous ticks. When they don’t bleed, it’s quite adorable, just like all of his little quirks and fidgets. Just like all of him, really.   
Before long, the smaller man before me has found his way into the hands of sleep, but I don’t mind in the slightest. It comforts me to know he’s taking care of himself, and that he’s sleeping easily enough now. I don’t need him to be interacting with me to be comforted from my fears either. Just having him here is all I need to feel safe. I watch the slow rise and fall of his chest and kiss his forehead, gently intertwining our legs. I love this beautiful human with all my life, with all I have. When he is unable to see what I love about him, which is sadly quite often due to his body image issues and slight anxiety, it’s all I can do to speak in epics about how wonderful he is, and then think of some clever cute nickname to make him giggle and blush. His smile alone is enough to power the entire west coast for a year.   
Looking now at his peaceful sleeping face, I continue to think about just how lucky I am to have such a wonderful man to call my boyfriend. Nobody can compare to him with his barely there freckles, reddish auburn hair that’s as soft as a wool blanket, sea coloured eyes that I can always get lost in, soft, perfect lips, the whole package. Not just on the outside, but the inside. He’s the sweetest man I know, and watching him now, a half smile on his resting lips, I can’t help but pull him closer, thinking it may be just a dream. Eventually, thanks to Patrick and thinking of all the ways I can describe how beautiful and amazing he is, I am relaxed enough to drift back to sleep, which is precisely what I do, and the rest of the night is dreamless. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I wake up, there’s a glass of water, my pills, a bagel with cream cheese and blue berries, and some chocolate milk sitting on my night stand, waiting to be devoured. I gladly oblige the food that is begging me to consume it, and Pat walks in the room, dressed and gorgeous as always. Looking him over, I smile, until, that is, I get to his face. He looks upset. He.. he looks upset. Of course he’s upset, I dragged him out of bed at two in the morning over a stupid nightmare! “Peter Wentz.” Oh God.. here we go. The speech I knew was coming. The thought of what’s about to happen is already causing me to shake, and Pat must see this because he continues without prompting.   
He aggressively holds up a pill bottle, if that’s even possible, and I can hear the distress in his higher than usual voice. “This was under the pillow, I felt it when trying to adjust this morning.” He looks as if he wants a reason, but I sit, a sad gaze cast down onto the floor. The name on the bottle seems to burn into my skin, and then salt is thrown into the open wounds when my boyfriend says, in what sounds to my anxiety like an accusing tone, “Ativan?! Pete, why didn’t you tell me it was getting worse again!? If you have to keep it by where you sleep… oh.. oh God, y-you weren’t.. you weren’t thinking about.. “ “No! No, no no no nothing like that!” I cut him off before he can finish, though still reluctant to explain the actual situation. He looks at me with desperate eyes, which hurts worse than any wound. “Pete.. please, please talk to me.”  
I shake my head, not willing to look up anymore. If only I could just stare a hole into the ground which I could crawl into and never leave. I feel empty, like the will to try has been sucked out of me with that one look. There’s a growing void, threatening to consume all that I am, until I’m shaken from my thoughts by a shaky voice. “P-Peter!” About to curl in on myself, a small whimper escapes my lips and I move to complete the action until I feel a thud on my lap, discovering the source to be the pill bottle, and look up to see Pat shaking so bad he might crumble.   
“P-Pat.. s-sit down” He shakes his head so I pull him close, afraid he’d fall and hurt himself. To my dismay, he pulls away, which hurts even worse, though thankfully he doesn’t try to stand again. After a moment of silence, his tiny voice almost mumbles “Y-you’re scaring me.. h-have you been lying a-about the nightmares?” All I can do is nod. He knows me too well. What makes my heart snap in two, if it hadn’t already, is how hurt he sounds, his words are saturated with it. “W-why?.. Why would you l-lie to me…” I don’t have to look up to know that he’s crying, but I force myself so I can wipe his tears, even though my touch is probably not welcome anymore. This time though, this time he doesn’t pull away.   
I take a deep breath and begin my story. “I-it’s been going on for awhile now.. the nightmares, the fear, the pain. It’s not bipolar attacks, those are rare nowadays. I-it’s the depression and anxiety it’s left me with, the meds d-don’t work and the ones that do have a-awful side effects. Ativan is the closest thing I’ve found to relief, and surprisingly not in the form of an OD.” I let out a dry laugh at my own wit, which of course Pat finds less than amusing and frankly, I do too. “It’s always the worst at night, when there’s no other sights or sounds to distract me from my thoughts, from my demons. Most nights, nightmares plague what little sleep I get, and when they don’t, anxiety and insomnia to the rescue to play how little sleep can Pete Wentz get tonight. The nightmares and the scenarios I create in my head, they’re all the same. They’re… they’re.. P-pat.. I c-c-can’t do this, p-please. Please d-don’t make me talk about it.. I’ll tell you anything else b-but that.. please.”   
Shaking now, I look up, but Patrick is gone. Just.. just like I knew he would be. He was walking out the door as soon as I stopped talking, and I haven’t even told him the worst of it yet. I knew he would get tired of being weighed down by my shit, by everything I throw at him, and now by my not telling him what was going on. That man has too much to deal with on his own, I should’ve just let him be. When he doesn’t come back within a few minutes, I decide he’s gone, or at least wants space. So I’ll give him space.   
Suddenly everything around me heats up. The world is on fire and I’m caught in the blaze. It’s all spinning, it’s spinning and spinning and red and burning and hot, oh God, everything is hot to the touch, I cry out at every move I make that rubs against something. It’s all a mixture of fiery tones, all dangerous and begging me to stay away. And then I see it. A shiny, cool, blue-grey glint against the rest of the burning world. Around it there is no flame. A haven, a relief. I grab it. It feels familiar and comfortable in my hands, like an old friend… like Patrick. Patrick. Patrick Patrick Patrick! The name resonates in my mind over and over, like a broken record and I remember why the fire started. It started because he hates me now, he left me, and he is my world. And now my world is burning to the ground. The only thing that isn’t trying to kill me in some form or fashion is the shiny blue-grey object which feels like home in my hand.  
I turn it around a few times, deciding that relief would come when the object marked me. Nothing made sense anymore, nothing was anything, nothing had a distinct shape or name, it was all just a red, burning blob and it hurt like Hell. Maybe it was Hell. The only thing I could make out was the object which I held, and I put it to use. I dug in first to one arm, then the other. Relief. The burning slowly ebbed away. Dig into the other. The fire was dimming now. I pull up my shirt and go to town on my stomach. A the blaze shrinks back. My thighs and the back of my calves. The burning goes away even more. I repeat the process until I can see again, and what I find is not what I expected. I’m all covered in a red substance.. blood. There are so many gashes, most are relatively deep. A few will need stitches, not that I care. I’d be okay with bleeding out right now. For good measure, I decide to add a few more now that I can feel them, just so I know that I can still feel anything.  
Before I can add the second one, something yanks the knife from my hands and is screaming words, the world is starting to blur again, not with fire this time. Just a general blur, because that voice is an angel, my angel, my Patrick. Which means I’m dead, because he left for good. “P-pat!” I choke out, coughing up a little blood in the process. I still can’t see, everything is a blur, as is normal when you’ve lost a lot of blood, but that’s odd, because I’m dead already. I.. I hope I am anyway. Pressure is being put on the deeper cuts, and I determine that I am in fact NOT dead because it hurts like Hell, which earns a cry of pain out of me. The smaller cuts I can feel being wrapped or bandaged, whatever is most convenient for the area they’re in.   
After blinking a few time I can make out a figure. It’s Patrick. He’s stopped shaking, but I can still see all the pain in his eyes. He looks at me when I reach out to him. I open my mouth, about to speak, but he shakes his head before I can and says “Don’t waste your energy talking Pete. You can explain later, and you will. Let me take care of you.” Take care of me.. Of course, he’s cleaning up my mess again. He should just leave me, but I determine saying that wouldn’t be the best option right now. Instead I allow myself to be absorbed into the bed and drift into a sleep, or quite possibly a state of unconsciousness that is anything but peaceful.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I wake up, I’m in a stark white room that I’m all too familiar with. A hospital. I feel sore everywhere, and what hurts worse is the memories that couldn’t have died with my heart. The memories of all that happen. I look around and Pat isn’t here, which I fully understand. I understand, that is, until he walks in. He was walking, at least until he saw the whites of my eyes. He’s by my bedside in an instant. “Pete! You’re ok! T-thank God!” I can tell he’d been crying. “Can’t shake me that easy, babe.” He chuckles a little, which makes everything better, at least until he quickly changes into a serious, business-like demeanor. “Explain. Now. Go.”  
I take a shaky breath, I suppose he deserves one now, if that’s what he really wants. “Y-you’ll hate me for it..” I voice my worries aloud, for some reason. He looks at me, shocked. “What? Is that why you wouldn’t tell me? Pete, I will never. EVER. hate you. For anything.” As if to back up his statement he intertwines our fingers, which is comforting. With him, I can conquer the world.   
I take a deep breath this time, steadier than the last. “These past few weeks have been Hell. I promise you I haven’t done any of.. well.. “ , He gestures to himself, “Until tonight. It’s just been a mess of nightmares, and they’re all the same basis. You being hurt because of my issues, you leaving because of my issues, that sort of thing. They’re all me, negatively effecting you with my issues. That hurt the worst, and the images always stuck. Then today you left and.. and I thought everything was coming true.” At this point I can see what looks to be a glimmer of.. shame, perhaps, in his eye and I don’t get why. “I broke. Everything was burning, it was so much and all I could see was the knife and all I could hear was your voice being disappointed in me. “ He squeezes my hand harder than I had known he could’ve, and lets it go after a five minute span to hug me instead. I hug him back, grateful for the proximity to my support system. “You.. you aren’t mad?” He looks scandalized by my question. “Mad? Peter Wentz you can’t control that, and I know that full well, and now I see that my leaving triggered your attack… P-pete, God I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have left if I’d’ve known, but I get now why you didn’t want to tell me. Just.. just know that I love you no matter what, and I was just so scared for you earlier. I still am. I’m sorry I overreacted. I had left to go get you some tea to help calm you, but you were out so I ran home. I’m so, so sorry.” He sounds so sad and it hurts. “ Hey, it’s ok, I’m ok now, and you’re still here. That’s what matters. I.. I l-love you and if you want to leave..” His reply is simple, yet the best thing I’ve ever heard, “I love you. No matter what.”  
I was shaking now, tears streaming down my face. Some happy, some sad, all filled with some sort of emotion, both fighting a war to consume me. A part of me was saying it wasn’t real, he was just saying that out of pity. The part of me that knew better was saying to tell him I love him too, but somehow I just couldn’t make the words come out. I opened my mouth, then shut it again. Nothing. I forgot how to speak in that moment, so overcome with everything, so instead I just pulled him closer and buried my face into his chest, letting loose the heavy sobs which I had been holding in for so long, despite my anxious brain telling me to play everything off like it was ok. I couldn’t hold it back anymore, so I allowed myself to cry into my perfect, amazing boyfriend. In turn, he stroked my hair and whispered sweet words to me, telling me it was all going to be ok and he’d always be here and he’d always be happy here no matter what. I knew in that moment that I’m so lucky to have him and if there are angels, one of them is manifested here in this redheaded man sitting beside me, comforting me, being my sanity and my hope. Driven by all this, I manage to choke out a small “I l-love you… s-so much.”, before another sob wreaks through me, and I bury deeper into him. Everything hurts, hurting Patrick hurts, my mind is screaming at me, I feel like I’m about to vomit. In fact, I do attempt to, but nothing comes up except a dry heave, as I likely threw everything up when I was in the trance. It’s happened before. Pat just holds me closer and shooshes me, rubbing small, comforting circles in my back. He loves me, and that’s all I need right now. We have each other, and with him I can conquer the world, and I hope I do the same thing for this perfect man.   
An unknown span of time passes, what feels like an eternity yet might’ve been only a few minutes before I feel a gentle kiss to my forehead and the vibrations of a chest which is humming sweetly. The soft noise hits my ears like a choir of angels. Somehow, with Patrick close by everything always manages to be ok. I find his hand and lace our fingers together, smooth skin against solid callouses, and squeeze. He returns the action, and that’s all it takes to say “I love you”, and “I love you too”. And we know it’s true.  
Eventually, the hands of sleep consume us both, sitting there in a comfortable silence, being each other’s support system. Hours pass, dreamlessly to my relief, and I wake up to find the content face of my sleeping lover buried in my hair. I don’t dare to move, lest I wake the sleeping baby, but I do find his hand again and carefully take it. There’s so much I wish I could tell him, so many feelings I can’t put into words to describe just how much I love him, how much I need him, how grateful I am for him. He is my everything, and without him I wouldn’t be alive. Looking at the slow rise and fall of his sleeping chest amplifies every feeling I have for this beautiful, wonderful man. I know I can’t put any of this in words appropriately, but hopefully I can get it across in the way I hold him or snuggle into him, the way I make our kisses last a little longer than planned, the way I look at him when I say I love him and vise versa, so that he will know just how much I adore him.  
By the time I wake up, the sun still hasn’t peered into the room, and looking at the time it’s 5 in the morning. I look over at my sleeping boyfriend. His mouth is parted slightly, his hair a mess, and his shirt has lifted to reveal his stomach. Despite all his body image issues, I find him to be quite beautiful, in every sense of the word and in every way possible. I lay back down and wrap my arms around him, wanting to hold this precious man as close to me as possible. Every moment with him is a special one, and I don’t want to let any of them slip away. I press a gentle kiss to his forehead, and allow him some space when he shifts, which signals that he woke up.   
“Sorry baby.” I mumble, hoping that I can lull him back to sleep. Instead, he curls closer into me and kneads my shirt between his fingers, which happens to be quite adorable. I chuckle and he looks up, eyes half open and sleepy. He places a kiss to my lips, which I return happily. “Go back to sleep babe.” He grumbles. I hide my smile by burying it in his hair and whine, “But then I can’t look at your pretty faaaaaace.” He simply huffs and buries deeper into me, quickly drifting back into sleep again.   
When the sun has risen and we’re both fully awake, Pat is sitting on my lap playing with my hair and singing softly, as he often does when there’s nothing else to do. “Hey there beautiful.” I say softly, and he looks up with that small adorable smile that only Patrick Stump can do. It’s the best smile in the world and makes my heart light up, as well as my face. This, in turn, has the same effect on him, which makes the situation continue to improve. This goes on for awhile until I brush some of the hairs out of his face and kiss him, which he quickly reciprocates. “My beautiful baby”, I say lovingly, because this man is truly beautiful in every way possible and I want to make sure he knows it. Sadly, he doesn’t, and at times mentioning my stance on the matter can serve to worsen the issue instead of make it better. Unfortunately, likely due to the added stress of all that happened recently, that’s exactly what happened today  
“I-I’m not..” He looks down sadly and my heart snaps in two. “I’m really not Pete, y-you don’t have to lie.” “Baby! Babe, I would never ever lie to you! You ARE beautiful and I just want to tell you. I want to tell you because it’s true and you deserve to hear it.” I reply quickly, my heart rate increasing quickly. Whether it worked to my advantage or my disadvantage I’m not sure, but the heart monitor was showing the product of my concern for my boyfriend and the beeping began to speed up. Pat looked at it, then at me, with a worried expression. “I’m s-s-sorry Pete.. I just… I don’t feel b-beautiful.” He began to chew at his nails, so I quickly took hold of his hands in one of mine and gently tilted his head up with the other so he could see the honesty and love in my eyes, and so I could see all the beauty and pent up emotion in his. It was an authoritative motion, but gentle and loving. “You are beautiful. You are the most beautiful person I know babe. I don’t care what the scale says, I don’t care how big you are. You are so beautiful on the inside, and on the out. Nothing can change that.” Tears are welling up in his eyes and I’m scared I said something wrong.. oh God.. I didn’t say something wrong did I? “B-babe?” I question, though instead of a reply I simply get his arms wrapped around me tightly and soon I can feel the thin hospital gown getting soaked through by his tears.  
As I run my fingers through his hair to help him calm down I ask, “What’s wrong baby girl?” He looks up at me and wipes his tears. “T-thank you Pete.. we both now I can’t magically g-get rid of my.. insecurities, b-but having you helps s-so much and I d-don’t feel beautiful b-but… but you make me feel not ugly. I love you s-so much.” At his speech, it becomes my turn to tear up and I simply pull him in for another hug. “I love you too baby.. I love you too.”  
Aside from this, the day goes by without incident. Lots of love, some shameless flirting, many kisses, and a sleepy patty to round it all off. After all the stress I’ve put him under, he deserves a good rest. He looks up at me with a yawn and half open eyes, resting sweetly in my lap with his head in the crook of my neck. I chuckle and boop his nose. “Hey sleepy baby, why don’t you turn in for the night?” I suggest. He shakes his head, but I press on. “You look exhausted babe, you deserve a good sleep. Again, he shakes his head, but this time he responds “I want to be with you, just to make sure.. y-you know.” Sigh. “Baby girl, I’m ok, I promise you. I’m not going anywhere as long as you’re here.” After a moment of weighing his options, he concedes, likely only because he’s having trouble keeping his eyes open as it is. I place a gentle kiss on his forehead and lie down, causing him to do the same as he was using me for support. He giggles, which makes all of me smile. “Gnight Petey.” He giggles, before slowing down his breathing and letting sleep wash over him. I smiled softly, and whispered “Goodnight Patty.” Before letting sleep engulf me as well.   
The world is swimming with darkness. It’s nauseating, spinning round and round and taking me with it. Everything is spinning and I feel sick. After a time, the darkness turns to splotchiness, and the splotchiness turns to blurriness. ‘At least I can see.’ I think bitterly. Looking around I find I am neither in a bed, nor in a hospital. I’m home, in the bathtub. I feel room-temperature water lapping just above my ass, which is odd. At least, it is until I look down and find it to be completely red. The sight alone makes me sick to my stomach. Then my legs, arms, and chest littered with cuts and all the harsh things I’ve thought about myself throughout the years carved onto them. Worst of all is the stinging pain I feel on my neck, which, after some feeling, I recognize to be carved with the word “Mistake”.   
Up comes the vomit at the new discovery. Everything hurts, my mind hurts. I know every word on my body is true. Yet.. I don’t feel like I could do this to myself. Have I been gracious with my wounds before? Absolutely, but never.. never like this. I didn’t do this to myself. Suddenly the door swings open and a familiar figure walks in. It’s Patrick. I brace myself for the scream of terror and the tears when he sees the mess that I’ve apparently created, yet feel like I didn’t. ‘Why can’t I remember anything? Did I black out that bad?’ The singer turns his head to me. Here it comes. I close my eyes, but nothing. Silence. Not feeling it safe to talk I open my eyes and tilt my head, which hurts. “Still alive Petey?” His question unsettles me, but what freaks me out more is the manic smile painted across his face. Not the knife he’s holding in his hand. Surprisingly, that’s the most relaxing thing about the situation, the fact that he’s about to kill me and and this misery. “Such a fuck up Pete, you can’t even properly kill yourself. God, I have to do everything for you, you God damned miserable bitch.” He digs the knife into an already existing cut and makes it wider, causing a scream of pain out of me, which hurts even more. This continues for about five minutes before he stops, pulls back and says, “I think you get the point. Time for me to finally lighten my burden and get rid of you. It’s what you’ve always wanted anyway, right Peter? Nightey niiight!” The last thing I see is the knife plunging into my chest.  
I shoot up, screaming, feeling a weight being lifted off my chest. A fast beep in the background. Deep breaths Pete. The nausea comes back. Patrick’s here. I’m in a hospital. I’m not bleeding. It was a nightmare. I vomit off the bed, still feeling sick from the sight of myself. Pat saying something. Words. Words, why can’t I make out words? Why is the only thing I can hear a ringing and the beeping of the heart monitor? Deep breaths, Pete. “Pete!” There he is. focus on him. “P-pete, babe… babe what h-happened?!” Patrick’s here. None of that happened. I grab his hand and hold on for dear life, not ready to speak, still feeling the pain in my throat and vocal chords. Understanding I’m still shaken, like the perfect angel he is, he holds on as well. I’m not okay, but at least I have MY Patrick. 

An amount of time goes by, though I have no idea what that is. I’m assuming it was about 10-15 minutes, and I thought Pat had gone back to sleep. I discovered I was wrong when he shifted and said, in his quiet, worried voice, “Do you need anything babe?” A shake of the head from me, and then a hand in my hair from him. He strokes it lovingly and as I curl farther into him, I know I’m safe. It’s this which allows me to speak, though by now my voice is cracked from sobbing, and probably the screaming from the nightmare itself. I decide to start slow, not yet ready to recount the horrific details, for both mine and Pat’s sakes. “I-it was… a-a-awful… d-disgusting.. and terrif-fying.” My boyfriend nods empathetically and kisses my hand. “I’m sorry you had to go through that Petey.” I look down. “I-i’ll be able to tell you about it later, I promise,” He looks at me, worried. “You don’t have t-“, He begins, but I cut him off mid-sentance. “Yes I do. I do because.. b-because.. because you were the worst part.” Luckily, I can’t see his reaction. 

“M-m-me?” He looks scared now, and if I couldn’t see it it’s plenty evident in the stammer that has made itself known. I nod sadly. I let a small sigh escape from my slightly parted lips, now is as good a time as any to tell him, though I really don’t look forward to it. “Yeah… you, babe. I-it… it’s not the first one like that.. but.. it is the worst nightmare I’ve had.” I dare to glance at him, and he’s looking at me sadly, but with a look that urges me to go on. “Usually it’s just you l-l-leaving.. getting to frustrated to put up w-with me.. I have those almost every night. I-it comes with my depression” He nods, intently watching every word flow from my lips like they’re the most important things in the universe, saving all reactions to the end. “T-tonight though..” My voice cracks and I trail off… just.. just thinking about it makes me tear up. 

When my vision is too blurred by incoming tears to see, I can feel a soft pair of arms pull me close. Knowing it’s Pat I lean into them, but in a feeble, and useless attempt to reassure him I manage to squeak out an “It’s ok.” He shakes his head and pushes the hair out of my face, ever so gently. “I-it’s ok Pete, take your time. I’m not going anywhere.” 

I curl into his calming touch, his soft, sweet fingers find their way through the tangles in my ratty hair. This man is everything I could ever need, he is my peace and my haven. As long as I have him to keep me grounded, I can do anything. I can tell him what happened, he deserves to know. Cmon, Peter. Just get it over with. Inhale. Exhale. Deep breath. “P-pat..” A start. My voice is shakier than I’d like it to be, but he’s looking at me expectantly and it’s too late to back down now. “Pat.. the nightmare.. it.. it was graphic, and bloody, and a mess. I.. I was in a bathtub.. your bathtub. At.. at first I just assumed it was because I had an attack at your place because the tub was f-full of blood, and there wasn’t an inch on my body that didn’t have a r-relatively deep cut. I figured I did it.. what else could it b-be? But something felt off.. I knew I would never do something to that extreme. Looking at…looking at it made me sick to my stomach. And then.. “ I trail off here, my voice growing quieter now. I don’t want to relive this. “And then you walk in holding a knife.” It comes out just above a whisper. He gasps, figuring out where it’s going. “I’ve had nightmares about you leaving before Pat, about you telling me how much of a worthless fuck up I am, but this.. You went in graphic detail about why I shouldn’t exist.. but… instead of just telling me to kill myself and leaving me with the knife… you.. you did it for me.. slowly. That’s why.. that’s why when I woke up I vomited.”

A soft pair of loving arms are around me in an instant and, if I’m not mistaken I can feel tears soaking through my shirt. Shit.. I scarred him too bad. “Babe..” This man.. he can read my thoughts or something. “Babe.. I know you feel bad about telling me.. God, you probably feel bad in general but.. shit Pete.. I think that’s beyond me to help with. We need to get you to a psychiatrist, and I’m serious. That’s some shit I I’m not qualified to deal with. “ His language gives away his concern, but his voice is gentle and loving, not angry and disgusted. I nod. “If.. if you think it’ll help I’ll go for you so you don’t have to become my mother.” He chuckles, which is literally the best thing that will ever happen to this world, to me. “I already am Peter.” “Fair p-point.” I concede. He takes my hand and kisses it, then pecks my lips and mumbles against them, “It’ll be ok babe. We’ll get you through this. I promise.” I knew in that moment that we would be ok.


End file.
